


Forget Me Not

by Synchron



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen, Into The Spardaverse Week, Language of Flowers, Reconciliation, Time Travel, roundabout conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:33:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29333097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: A natural expansion upon the portaling abilities of Yamato, Devil Sword Vergil allows its wielder to manipulate time itself. Revisiting the past is no longer a dream.Perhaps once upon a time, having this power at his disposal would have been catastrophic, but for Vergil as he isnow, for all the vast distances he has covered with years of burdened experience, there's only one place, one time, he wants to return to.
Relationships: Eva & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand here I am with my Spardaverse entry!! I unfortunately really only had enough brain cell to do one of the days, but I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless!! This here is for Day 6 of Into The Spardaverse week: Universe/Home.
> 
> I hope by the end of this, you can tell which I picked. 🤣

Vergil was conflicted once, about the existence of Devil Sword Dante. Despite constant reassurance that the respective strengths and weaknesses of each brother worked not in conflict, but instead in perfect harmony, despite his own faith in himself, that sword was tangible, unshakeable proof that Dante held a deeper connection to their parents than Vergil could ever hope to achieve. Absorbing the Devil Sword Sparda into his own being, carrying the complete Amulet wherever he goes… Dante is Sparda's _new_ legacy. The one - and only - successor to a legend as old and as real as time.

It wasn't about the power anymore - maybe it never was all along - it was about the sense of _belonging_. As part of the family. As part of the city. As part of this world that Sparda saved, living as one of the humans he loved so much. An outsider such as he, someone so deeply entrenched in expectations both dubious and well-meaning, both old and new, could never truly have a place among humans. No matter how he tries, there is mud encrusted upon his shoes that no amount of walking forward will shake off. They leave permanently misshapen tracks everywhere he goes, through which he is defined, but not seen. That Dante would even keep him around, after so much and so long, is a miracle in itself.

Armed with thoughts such as these, Vergil was bitter about it for a long while, struggling to comprehend, much less overcome the heights his own brother surpassed with so much recognition, and yet so little effort. What was he missing? What did he _lack_?

When would he finally be able to call himself a Son of Sparda, and be _proud_ of it?

But then there came a day when Nero needed him. When the children he looked after with a fierce love that transcended blood cried for him. For _him_ , and no one else.

The orphanage was under attack. A foolish mistake on the part of such low tier demon fodder, and yet...

Vergil hadn't felt fear in a long time. But those tendrils he felt chilling his blood was decidedly, wholly, _entirely_ different from the selfish sting of self preservation. He didn't - _doesn't_ \- fear death; he spent years upon years upon years with death as his only companion, hovering over his shoulder, only ever a breath away. Instead, it was the fear of failure that gripped him. The fear of letting down the precious, precious few who now relied on him, called him grandfather, and always rushed to meet him at the door to ask for more stories, grandpa!! You always tell the best ones!!

Yamato was a sword that responded to the desires of its wielder, attuning itself to body, mind, and spirit, to appear in moments of need. And on that day, the day he fought not for himself, or to protect his fragile ego, Vergil finally understood why his own weapon denied him its most powerful form for so long.

It was never about _needing_ more power.

It was about _why_ you needed it.

Everything fell perfectly into place after that; a paradigm shift of extreme, but also miniscule proportions.

Looking back, Vergil finds it almost funny now.  
  


* * *

  
Traversal between the human and demon worlds is one of Yamato's numerous functions, and one that Vergil has long since gotten used to. A far cry from his younger days, much wiser now, he does it without batting an eye anymore, the process of cutting his own path to a location of his choosing as natural as the way he draws breath. But to discover that the Devil Sword Vergil can not only manipulate space to his liking, but _time_ as well… it had been a shock.

He's no longer limited to _where_ he travels, his horizons have now expanded to _when_.

Returning to the present, the one that he lives in now, is easy. It is, after all, his point of anchorage; no matter where or when he goes, he well and truly knows where he needs to be. Where his _home_ presides. With such an attachment to where his life is now, returning is as simple as cutting a regular portal. But choosing a period of time to travel to? It took him weeks to understand it. Having lost so much of it, Vergil, more than anybody else, knows how precious of a commodity time is. How so very fragile and easily disturbed. He has no desire to change the past, not when he cannot experience it for himself with all the context and weight of that informed decision at the forefront of his mind, and especially not when it would have such uncertain effects on his future; he has a son here, and a brother too, both of which have forgiven him for past deeds, both old and new, but equally hurtful. Reducing their efforts to nil, _erasing them entirely_ , would be unfair to them.

So perhaps once upon a time, having this power at his disposal would have been catastrophic and cruel in a way that he no longer is, but for Vergil as he is _now_ , for all the vast distances he has covered with years of burdened experience, there's only one place, one time, he wants to return to.

Eventually, after nearly two months of careful deliberation, Vergil finds himself standing before a familiar manor.

Not the refurbished version with its fresh coats of paint and overpowering smell of wood polish - dream-like. Surreal. A ghost of a ghost - but the original. A far more humble structure of wood and stone. Vast yes, yet also modest. There is no great gate barring his entrance. Not at this point in time. Only a path laden with pebbles and dirt packed by the passage of many, cutting through an empty field, leading all the way to the entrance. Even the air smells different here, clearer, not bogged down with the dense smell of diesel and grease and _rain_ (which, admittedly, is not a smell he dislikes). But there is something refreshing in its crisp flavour. Something overwhelmingly natural, and simply… _overwhelming_.

So vast yes, yet also modest.

That was the lifestyle he remembers, as sure as the sun that shines its gentle warmth over his old home on this peaceful day.

But back then, the days were nothing _but_ peaceful. Even the days where the crack of wooden swords pierced the air, and name calling - the kind that only children would ever think to entertain - was abundant. There were scraped knees, smears of blood, sometimes cracked ribs, and always, _always_ , finger pointing and blame shifting. Countless "he did it!"s and "it wasn't me!"s that would spark another fight, and thus become another spinning cog in their everlasting quarrel.

But even that is precious to him now.

Vergil looks up again, feeling the sun on his face, and scans the windows of the house, wondering where _she_ is on this day - the blonde woman with the red shawl whose mere memory stirs up… _something_ within him. He can't name the feeling, but can attribute its symptoms to words like "unease" and "anxiety". "Sadness" and "a fleeting warmth". A certain "heaviness" and "longing" that keeps him rooted to the spot right on the very edge of the estate, where he stands, and also stands out. It isn't merely that he's out of place in the obvious sense, but in every possible meaning of the term too; in body, in soul, in time, and in place. His coat is just too dark and too drab against the pastel sky, memories too burdened and complex for this moment from a time long past, but he supposes he'll tolerate it for a little longer. Just until he can glimpse, like a ghost haunting his own memories, the blonde woman with the red shawl whose mere memory stirs up a bittersweet nostalgia–

 _Ah_ , he muses to himself, _so that's what it is_.

The sound of a set of footsteps rouses him from his reverie. He figures it must be residents of the budding Red Grave, here to seek counsel from the city's celebrated philanthropists. But upon listening a little closer, over the sounds of peace - wind through the leaves, the gentle swaying of tall grass, and the skittering feet of tiny woodland creatures - Vergil notices the footfalls all differ in pace and sound. Two sets are lighter, more rapid and somehow more excited, while the third is steady and methodic. Two children and an adult, then?

Strange, he doesn't recall there ever being visitors who were children.

Which means… oh no, he needs to leave before–

"Mother, were we expecting visitors today?" A familiar voice - his own, but more youthful - speaks aloud. There is an unspeakable confidence in it, even at this age, yet Vergil cannot bring himself to face this spectre, afraid perhaps, that if he turns, all he will see is a boy covered in blood and adorned with nightmares.

The small family comes to a stop. He hears a rustle of paper bags, items rattling against tins, a faint clink of glass jars. Have they just returned from some shopping?

"Ah… yes, I'm afraid I'd forgotten," the woman hides her surprise well, speaking instead in a voice as soothing as warm honey. Memories stir a little more fiercely at the sound of it; her silhouette standing in the kitchen, kneading at a lump of dough; reading quietly in their great library; scolding their father over some mishap that was the fault of her two sons. But in those memories, her back is always turned to him, the glare of bright sunlight obscuring even the profile of her face. It isn't as though he's forgotten what she looks like - he could _never_ \- but it's almost as if, even now, he's still just trying to protect himself and that fragile ego he likes to pretend he doesn't have.

Maybe he hasn't come as far as he thought.

Vergil's head dips, his back still toward them. What can he do now? He hadn't anticipated actually meeting her. Though he'd spent hours upon hours, days upon days thinking of what he could say to her if he had the courage to face her, he soon realised something gravely simple; he _didn't_. Sometimes he wonders if _this_ is the true reason it took him so long to understand time travel. Weeks of procrastination over a conversation he was never supposed to have the opportunity to have. Even back when he was but a child, he had always been afraid of disappointing Eva too, loathed it so much he avoided those scenarios entirely by simply running away. And the more things change, the more they stay the same. It's all excuses within excuses. Avoidance and escape.

Is nothing about him genuine?

But he's trapped now, well and truly stuck until he can weasel his way out of having any real conversation. In plainer words, he needs to stall until he can escape, both of which are things that go against the grain of his personality.

How on earth does Dante manage to do this time and time again? Perhaps Vergil can stand to learn a thing or two from his brother.

"Can I trust the two of you to help me put the shopping away?" Eva asks the two boys at her side. "I'll be just a moment."

"Of course," says his younger self.

"I guess so," comes a rolling grumble that can only be Dante.

From behind Vergil, there's more scuffling, more shifting of items as bags are adjusted and repositioned, but in the next moment, he hears them move towards him, towards the house. Vergil freezes, averting his gaze when the two boys move past him, looking up only when he feels they're far enough away for it to be safe. Dante, dressed in that white shirt with flecks of green from his tumbles in the grass, shoves at his brother with his shoulder. He doesn't put any effort into listening in on their banter - having lived it, he can imagine what they're saying - but soon after, they both break into a run.

"No snacks until dinner!" Eva calls after them. Still running forward, they both turn halfway to look at their mother at that remark - an unspoken acknowledgement of her request. But that's when Vergil's eyes meet with theirs. Dante isn't the type to pay much heed to strangers, especially when they come and go as frequently as they do, but curious little Vergil with his careful attention to detail? His gaze lingers, eyes narrowing into almost a squint.

Unable to bear the scrutiny, Vergil looks away.

A click of heels and a crunch of gravel sounds behind him, drawing nearer until they fall into step at his side. In his periphery, he sees the bold colours of her dress; a glossy black. golden hems, and that brilliant vermillion shawl. Her favourite outfit. It was a joint effort between all three of her boys to purchase the entire ensemble. Their pocket money came from Sparda of course, so _technically_ , the outfit was purchased by Sparda himself, but he was always wanting to find ways to include his sons in his day-to-day business. Thinking back on it now, it seemed as though he was always trying to make up for something.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Despite being a complete stranger in her eyes, a suspicious event were this the dwelling of any other family, there's no actual animosity in her voice. Of course, that can be attributed to the fact that Eva was - is - a powerful witch, capable of defending herself from anybody foolish enough to storm the manor in broad daylight, but Vergil wants to believe this gentle nature is just who was.

 _Is_.

"I…" That's as far as he gets before his voice trails off, his courage dying right there upon the tip of his tongue. He has entire books and soliloquies stored away in his mind, and yet cannot wrangle together more than one measly syllable to direct towards someone of such grand importance to his life, his old ambitions, _everything_.

...and to think he is still technically a Demon King. What on earth is he doing?

Eva makes a soft noise. Not really a laugh, but a gentle sound that Vergil recognises; a gentle acknowledgement of his attempt, neither scolding nor judgmental. "You've traveled a long way to come here, haven't you? I don't believe I've ever seen you in town before." She does laugh now, a hand lifting to delicately cover her mouth. "Almost as charismatic as my husband - I would remember somebody like you."

"Yes…" he thinks that if all he's doing is answering her questions, he can get through this, "just passing through town. I'd heard tales of the family here and I simply wanted to meet the philanthropists helping the city grow."

Ever modest, Eva shakes her head. "I wouldn't call us philanthropists - merely those who feel everybody deserves a chance to thrive."

Despite himself, Vergil allows himself a slight smile.

"But enough about us. I'm sure a drifter like yourself has many tales to tell, and perhaps regrets in equal measure if you found your way here today." Softly, tentatively, as if seeking his permission beforehand, she places a gentle hand on his arm, and at that tiny gesture alone, Vergil feels his apprehension melt away. She always did have that effect. "Would you like to come in for some tea?"

How could he say no?  
  


* * *

  
Odd that of all places, of all things, it is the garden that Vergil remembers with the most clarity. The neatly trimmed hedges, the pops of vibrant colour, the way the wind carries a soft floral blend of Eva's care. He can still name every flower in this concoction if he tries - such is the strength of this deeply etched memory. Even the way the ivy drapes itself over the patio roof above them is familiar, letting only a sparse, yet still warming amount of sunlight through. It shifts as the breeze comes and goes, scattering broken shafts of light, but he finds the constant fluctuation makes it easier for him to maintain eye contact with her; the brief moments of shadow hiding the guilt in his eyes as he looks at his smiling mother sitting across from him.

She is entirely unchanged from his memory; the golden hair, the shape of her nose, the way the corner of her eyes crease when she smiles. One could simply say that Trish is perhaps to thank for his apt recollection of her, as a living remnant of a woman that once was, but that would be giving Trish too little credit. In the same way that Vergil is not simply "Dante's quiet brother", Trish is not merely "a reminder of Eva". Though having only known her for a much shorter period than Dante, the contrasts between the two are plain as day; Trish is not Eva.

(Though it did take him some time to reconcile that fact.)

Vergil suddenly looks down into his lap - the only place he can think of to look on such short notice - only just now realising he's staring. He listens as she pours him a cup of tea; a homemade blend of lavender and mint, with a touch of lemon. He remembers this too. Remembers picking the lavender with her, and then drying it out on a baking sheet. The snap of the oven door closing similarly snaps him from the clutches of nostalgia.

"You aren't an inconvenience, if that was your concern." Eva doesn't look at Vergil as she then moves to pour a cup for herself, smiling gently all the while. The teapot is set back down upon the table with a soft clink, right by a short vase, holding tiny blue blooms. "My sons are merely curious."

He meets the green of her eyes as she nods over his shoulder. Vergil turns his head to follow her gaze, where the two boys, identical inversions of one another, hiding behind drawn curtains peek from either side of a window. One set of eyes is more suspicious than the other, but he supposes he can't fault his past self for being overprotective.

And foolishly, he says this out loud.

"I don't blame them - I was protective of my mother too."

It's a reckless gamble, a bread crumb dropped with hope upon a trail that he isn't certain he even wants her to follow. It's something that he leaves up to chance, which, already, is so unlike his steadfast and forthright ways. But perhaps he's overthinking it, because there's no pause in her motions, no prolonged staring into a face she never got to meet, no glimmer of recognition in the emerald ocean of her eyes.

Maybe it's better that way.

"Well," she begins, "as all sons tend to be. Your mother must have been a lucky woman."

Vergil's chest tightens. He makes another blind leap. "Not as much as I would have liked." A beat. A quiet, quivering inhale. Another hopeful crumb dropped. "She was taken from us when I was a child. For a long time, I was perhaps thinking… I was at fault. If I'd been there to protect her..."

But again, there is no notion that Eva understands the meaning behind his words, only a steady hand that gently rearranges the tiny blue flowers in that vase. Distantly, bitterly, Vergil notes she's paid more attention to those than she has to him. Her own son.

Not that she knows that.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss." She says, not entirely dismissive, but not comforting enough that Vergil is willing to let go of years of regret. "Did you come to seek forgiveness, then?"

"Is that foolish?"

Eva hums, a bit whimsical, deliberately ambiguous. "Perhaps." She looks up at his face the exact moment Vergil lowers his eyes to his cup of tea. "You've travelled far for something you may have always had." Were Vergil any less of a man of poise - from which he did learn from the best - the cup of tea he'd only just begun lifting to his mouth would have ended up down the front of his vest. As it is however, only one streak makes it down the side of the porcelain cup, caught upon the saucer and forming a faint ring upon its center. Her words are horribly, painfully vague, and yet, strangely, they are precisely what Vergil needs to hear; in the soft melody of her tone, in the warmth of her voice, is redemption.

"I can see you are weary - you have fought so long, and you have fought so hard to arrive here today, but I hope there is no guilt in you doing so."

Wordlessly, Vergil lowers the cup and saucer back upon the table, breathing slowly to hide the tremor in his hand. Another cool breeze stirs the creeping ivy overhead and casts more flickering shadows, comforting in their own way, such that Vergil lets a little of that hollow feeling in his chest dye the colour in his eyes. "But if not for me, she would have lived."

For the first time since they sat down together, in Eva's quaint little garden where the sun always seems to shine just a little brighter, just a little warmer, the smile drops from her face. "Would you have had it happen a different way? Would you have taken her place?"

He contemplates that for a moment, bridging his silence by lifting his cup of tea again. Vergil watches the way it catches the sunlight, the slow, lazy swirl of reflected light upon the surface, then closes his eyes and breathes the aroma of it in. When he takes his first measured sip, when the flavour hits his tongue, rather than relieved, overcome by yearning, he only feels a pang of pain in his chest. He puts the cup down again.

"If it meant she would live." He directs his gaze out into the garden to avoid the sad look that darkens her expression. "The world would have been a better place for it - needed her touch more than mine." There's no hiding the bitterness in his tone, potent enough to overpower the flavour of Eva's tea. He is single handedly responsible for two of the three catastrophes that befell Red Grave. That is two too many, while also saying nothing of the blood of the countless that stains his hands. There are still days where they feel slick with it, nothing but an illusion that he shatters with a clenching of his fists, but it disgusts him nonetheless.

But Eva is not deterred by his bitterness. "Weary traveller, I do not know what drives you to say such things, I do not know the circumstances with which you are burdened, but everything you have gained up until now - the experience, the wisdom, the bonds forged along this path - you would give that up too? Do they not deserve a say in the role they play in your life?"

The hollow ache in Vergil's chest bubbles up into the base of his throat. Ah, he feels like a child again, and it isn't nearly the warming experience he thought it would be. " _But it isn't fair._ "

"It isn't," she agrees, "but speaking as a mother myself, I hope you would believe me when I say that the knowledge that my son lives would be justification enough for my own loss of life." Again, she touches the tiny flowers in that vase in the middle of the table, delicately stroking each petal with the tips of her fingers as if she hadn't a care in the world. "I have two children - twin sons - and I could not bear the thought of burying either of them, let alone both. They are all that I have, and all that I could want. And should such a day ever come for me, should it be a decision I must make…" Eva pauses, long enough for Vergil to seek her out her eyes, shining under a beam of golden light. "...I would not hesitate."

"But why?" His throat feels raw for simply having asked. Vergil sits and sputters and stutters over words, trying and failing to expand on such a broad question until his face scrunches in frustration aimed toward himself. In the end, all he can articulate is: "Children need their mothers."

_I needed you._

But Eva is almost entirely unphased. Her reply comes swiftly with not even a murmur of hesitation. It's as if to her, it's natural.

"Because I love them. Isn't that enough?"

Vergil's lips part, intending to give voice to a noisier, no doubt Dante-inspired part of him, to ask her to reconsider. To even beg it of her, but a crash suddenly sounds from inside the manor - the distinct shatter of porcelain. Hushed voices immediately follow, pitched and nervous. He hears Eva sigh, a sound plainly at odds with the wistful smile that pulls at her lips.

"And speak of the devil. I believe that is how my sons are demanding I shift my attention to them." She gathers herself, adjusts the way her shawl sits over her shoulders, and then rises to her feet.

It's far too soon, Vergil thinks. There's still so much he wants to say to her. So much he wants to hear her say to _him_. So many things to apologise for. So many years unaccounted for. And finding a sliver of bravery within the depths of his fleeting pride, he turns in his chair as she goes by, to tell her to, at the very least, wait. He can figure out what comes next as it happens. "Play it by the ear", as Dante would say, but when he swivels around, half poised to stand and follow her if need be, he finds that she's already stopped before him, head tilted and smiling. She leans down toward him, bringing with her the sweet scent of her perfume, and tucks a sprig of bright colour securely into one of the buttonholes on the lapel of his coat. It's only now that Vergil bothers to identify the flower she constantly kept drawing her attention towards; a modest cluster of forget-me-nots.

"A gift from my home to yours," she begins, oblivious - deliberately so, as Vergil will eventually understand - to the realisation that dawns on him, "as an apology for cutting this meeting short. But I would like you to know that should you ever need me, to talk, to listen, whatever you need of me, you know where I will be, and you will always be welcome here." She pauses for just a heartbeat. "But I do have one condition." Eva leans a little lower, a little closer, her hands smoothing out the worn, tired velvet of his coat, straightening it out in a way that's far too familiar to be a gesture between strangers, too tender, too motherly, and he feels upon his temple a whisper of her lips.

"The next time you come here, Vergil, I would like for it to be as yourself."

She's gone in the next instant, in a flutter of red and gold, leaving her son wide-eyed and stunned to silence in her wake. His chest thuds heavily, and though she's leaving him again, to tend to sons that aren't him, he only feels the warmth of recognition. Vergil's head droops lower and lower as he hears the click of her heels grow distant, until he's staring down at the flowers his mother placed upon his chest, swaying gently in the breeze.

Of course she knew.


	2. Epilogue

It's hard to think that there is ever a day where the sun does not shine over his old home. Though Vergil knows this to be true, saw for himself the way thick smoke blotted out the sun above as chaos raged below, looking at it now, with its winding path and untamed grass and wildflowers in an unkept front yard, that day, _that day_ , is still a ways off.

He draws in a breath, partly to steel himself, mostly to commit the fragrance of peace to his memory; vast, yet modest. The anxiety from his last visit is gone. The instinct telling him he has no right to be here silenced by the crinkle of plastic in his hand. Arranging the flowers took him some time, every placement seemingly too cluttered or too sparse. Too busy. Too many clashing colours. Bundling them properly, and then wrapping them in a presentable fashion took even longer, but Vergil supposes subsequent attempts will go smoother. Like all things, like he has done himself, he will get better in time.

Gravel crunches underfoot as he makes his way toward the front door. Knocking would be the polite thing to do, even if this is his own home, but instead of raising his hand, he stops. Thinks. Cants his head to the side… He can't explain what pulls him off the path, doesn't know why he's more inclined to go _around_ the house instead of inside, but as he walks, and the foliage around him becomes less wild and more deliberate, he understands why.

The table out in the garden, beneath that patio with the creeping ivy, is already set up with a pot of tea and two gently steaming cups. Nothing else seems touched. The vase acting as the centrepiece is empty, the sugar undisturbed, the silverware polished to perfection with not even a blemish of use upon them. And yet it's an inviting scene; even one of the chairs sits slightly askew from the table, as if anticipating his arrival, already poised and ready to seat him. Vergil doesn't though, not just yet, approaching only to slot the bundle of forget-me-nots into the waiting vase, rearranging their formation just one last time.

It's then he hears the doors leading from the house open, followed by her voice, soothing and welcoming. Freeing.

"I had a feeling you would be coming by today. It's good to see you again, Vergil."

When he turns to greet his mother properly, for the first time in a long time, it comes easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Forget Me Not**
> 
>   * Remembrance during partings or after death
>   * Reminders of your favorite memories or time together with another person
>   
>    
> 
>   * **A connection that lasts through time**
> 



End file.
